


Friends with Literary Benefits

by Galena



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galena/pseuds/Galena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whirl is laid up in medibay; Rung helps stave off his boredom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends with Literary Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of these two having an 'odd couple'-y friendship that is utterly incomprehensible to their crew-mates. (Except Drift, apparently.) Beta'd by Carson; all remaining grammar quirks are my fault.

 Whirl recognized that he had been shot. 

He had probably been shot several minutes ago, but it had taken awhile for the damage to affect his systems in such an overwhelming way. He might have stumbled when it happened- did he remember stumbling? Maybe. Not really. He remembered running on the uneven ground, as mindful of his footing in the dark as he was of the infernal swarm of aggravated, gun-toting organics chasing him.

It wasn't Whirl's fault. He had been ordered to guard the _Lost Light_ when they landed to make hasty repairs. The inhabitants of the planet thought the _Lost Light_ looked like a prime opportunity for plunder, however, and like all good pirates, they attacked at night. Whirl was just doing his job.

He didn't remember falling, but here he was now, sprawled on his back and staring into the sky while his intakes stuttered and failed. _Weird,_ thought Whirl. There was a stabbing ache in his processor. Whirl didn't regularly get processor aches; that was something for Perceptor or Rung to worry about, not him.

_Wow, that really hurts_ , he observed. Maybe it was the light. The planet had a damnably thin atmosphere and almost no surface water; no clouds blocked the sunlight and it was glaring down at him like the angry eye of Primus. _Wait- since when is it day? What kind of messed up planet is this?_

Whirl tried to move his head into the shadow of a boulder he was now fairly certain he had tripped over. 

Nothing happened.

Whirl tried to move his legs and succeeded marginally, tarsal stabilizers flexing spastically, one hip jerking. Okay, so he wasn't paralysed. Why wouldn't his head move?

"I'm down," he comm'd, like a good soldier.

"Whirl!" That was Drift. Drift was angry. "Where the hell are you? We lost your signal _three days ago_!"

"I'm down," he repeated, confused. "I got shot." He paused. "Pretty sure I got shot."

There was a deep, armour-jarring roar and Whirl tried to cringe, but his neck and shoulders wouldn't respond. He tried to kick instead, intent on expressing his frustration physically. He was still trying, getting more annoyed with his predicament and his own inability to solve it, when Drift appeared.

"Whirl?"

Whirl didn't like the way Drift was looking at him. Drift didn't have a good poker face and the lip-curl of revulsion combined with the widened eyes of sympathetic horror did nothing to explain to Whirl what had happened to him.

"Stay still. I'll get Ratchet. Stay still. Whirl? You with me? Help is on the way."

Whirl grunted. He wanted to tell Drift to quit being dramatic and help him stand up but, his vocaliser didn't seem to be working. He blurted static instead.

Now Drift was kneeling beside him. It was dark again. _Seriously, what is wrong with this planet?_ Drift might have had one hand behind Whirl's helm but the 'copter wasn't sure. He couldn't feel it. When had Drift knelt? And why the hell was it night again?

"Whoa, you're quick," Whirl managed. "Didn't even see you move."

Drift didn't answer him, only grimaced in some expression Whirl couldn't decipher.

Then they were in medibay. Whirl struggled to sit up, startled.

"What's-"

"Settle down," Ratchet said and put a hand on the 'copter's chest. "Don't want you jarring anything else loose."

Whirl sank back with a growl. The ache in his processor had spread to most of his cranial casing and the more he thought about it, the more it hurt. Most of his senses were dampened too. His visual and tactile systems remained online but the loss of information from his proximity sensors, radar, and thermal radiation receptors made him feel claustrophobic and jumpy.

"Stop it," said Ratchet. He fiddled with something Whirl couldn't see. "There. How's that?"

The ache softened to a dull throb. It was tolerable, though Whirl would have liked for it to disappear completely.

"It's better, I guess," he allowed.

Ratchet nodded to someone out of Whirl's immediate visual range. "Finally. Thanks for the suggestion, doctor."

Whirl tried to turn his head, but it was still stubbornly unresponsive. Rung stepped up beside Ratchet.

"Your internal chronometer was damaged," the psychiatrist explained. "It affected the time-stamping on your information packets, including those from your sensory input and recognition centres. We just synced you with an external chronometer so you can process input in the correct chronological order."

Whirl was pretty sure he had no idea what Rung was talking about. "How come I can't move my head?"

"Because the shot that blitzed your chronometer melted your first three cervical centra together," said Ratchet. "Fused 'em completely." Ratchet frowned down at the data-pad he was holding. "At least your systems seem to be done stalling and crashing."

Whirl kicked his leg out, harder than he meant to because he wasn't fully expecting it to work. He struck a support machine and sent a knob or a lever flying, leaving a satisfying dent.

"Don't make me strap you down," Ratchet growled.

Whirl settled. "So now what? How long's this gonna take?"

"Ratchet needs to determine which of your systems are actually damaged and which of them just appear to be damaged due to the lag effects." Rung explained. He was holding onto the low railing around Whirl's berth, eyebrows lifting into a peak of concern. "Can you remember what happened?"

"I got shot," grumbled Whirl. He watched Ratchet adjust something on another of the support machines and realized he was connected to a ventilator. His own intake system appeared to be off-line. "How bad am I hurt?"

Rung moved his gaze over Whirl from helm to heels. "After your chronometer was damaged, all of the commands that your processor sent, and all of the data received by your sensor systems, got jumbled up. Your systems didn't know which commands or sensory input packets took precedence without a precise time-stamp. Your processor either tried to execute all of the commands at once or not at all, or in some combinations that we can't figure out. Most of the sensor data was lost. Obviously, the results weren't very healthy. We're still analyzing the feedback your processor suffered."

"Huh?"

"You took a ricochet blaster shot to the back of the head," Ratchet supplied.

Whirl grunted. He remembered Drift's expression. "Stupid Drift. Had me worried." 

Rung was frowning at him. "You were catatonic when we found you. Drift was rightly worried."

"Well, can't you just repair my chronometer?"

The irony of having his own, personal chronometer damaged was not lost on the ex-watchmaker.

"Yes," said Rung, "Ratchet is going to do exactly that. It'll only take a few days."

"A few _days_?"

Rung nodded. Ratchet turned his head a fraction, watching Whirl. "A few days to re-build and install,” he said, “and then at least another week of physical therapy before it's fully integrated again."

Whirl leaned his helm back against the wall. The motion necessitated he lean from somewhere around the middle of his back and felt more than a little stiff and awkward. "Can't you just put me in stasis until it's done integrating? I'm bored already." 

There was a dull screech and Whirl twisted himself to see Rung pull a work stool up beside his berth. Whirl shuttered his optic.

"Oh no. What are you doing?"

"Keeping you company," said Rung, "so you don't get bored."

"Seriously, just put me in stasis," he groaned. Ratchet approached, studying his data pad and looking far too smug for Whirl's liking.

"I can't put you in stasis,” said the medic. “I need you to be awake. Or at least marginally alert. I need to make sure that if you space out it isn't because the chronometer is out of sync with your systems again. So either talk to Rung, or I'll strap you down and send him out and you can stare at the ceiling."

Whirl met Rung's gaze. The psychiatrist resettled himself on the stool, extended the data-arm from behind his back and keyed open a file. "We really gonna do this, here, with him listening?" Whirl said, jerking his helm to indicate Ratchet.

"No," said Rung, "Despite Ratchet's medical authority, he would need your permission to sit in on a therapy session. I don't believe either of you want to endure that, so I thought I might read to you instead."

Whirl tried to cock his head and failed. "Really, doc?"

" _Really_ , Whirl. Do you have any requests or shall I start on the first article in Cyberpsychiatry Quarterly?"

"How about anything except that? And,” he added quickly, “any other boring doctor-stuff."

"Politics?"

"Primus, no! Are you trying to torture me or what?"

"Philosophy-"

"I'd rather stare at the ceiling for- for _weeks_."

"Astronautical engineering."

"Ruuuuung!" Whirl snapped his claws together loudly, half in mock threat, half in genuine frustration.

"Fiction, then."

"This is going to be some weird, existential, artsy thing isn't it?" he sighed.

"It's a mystery novel."

Whirl narrowed his optic, suspicious. "Like one of those court-room dramas where everybody just talks a lot?"

Rung peered over the edge of his data pad. "This story starts with a murder."

Whirl sat up a little higher. "Okay."

Rung read with subtle enthusiasm. He leaned forward on the stool, voice rising and falling with the pace of the narrative. Whirl stared around the medibay at first, listening but restless. Slowly, he found himself drawn into the story. His gaze stopped roaming and came to rest on the psychiatrist's bowed head. Whirl listened, rapt, and didn't notice when Ratchet left them part-way through the second chapter.

Whirl didn't think he had ever confided to Rung how much he enjoyed a good piece of fiction. It wasn't the sort of detail about himself that had seemed necessary to share in their sessions. But, either Rung had guessed, or had stumbled on this truth by happy accident, and he had even managed to choose something Whirl found engaging. Maybe figuring out the sort of subject matter that would hold Whirl's attention wasn't so hard, but still. Rung had made the effort and it was, well, pretty cool.

Whirl had never had someone read _to_ him before, though. Usually he would download a file directly to his processor, read it himself if he had time, or absorb it instantly, which was efficient but a lot less satisfying overall.

This was new. This was, dare he think, _fun_. Rung had a nice voice, the sort of voice that you wouldn't tire of hearing, which Whirl supposed was part of his psychotherapy-specific programming or something. He'd never really listened to the _quality_ of Rung's voice before, only the content. Here, now, that quality became as much an element of his words as their meaning.

Rung didn't seem to mind when Whirl interjected with comments and exclamations. Sometimes he nodded in agreement or paused to listen while Whirl explained what would _actually_ happen if X amount of force were applied to Y body part at Z angle.

"This guy has clearly never actually killed anybody," said Whirl authoritatively after the seventh creative but highly implausible murder.

"Which guy?"

"The author. If you think about it logically, yeah, okay, the clavicular strut is the only point of endo-frame attachment for the arm to the rest of your body- it's for freedom of movement or something in your kind of frame- mine's different-” Whirl raised and flexed one arm to demonstrate, “-but if I pull on somebody's arm that hard, it comes off at the shoulder 'cause of the way most people's armour works. It won't rip half the guy's throat out. That's dumb. Unless the guy has really poorly designed armour, because-"

"Okay, Whirl, can you suspend your disbelief until we find out who the murderer is?"

"Right, yeah, I'm suspending. Keep going."

 

The following day, Ratchet extended Whirl's projected recovery time by a week. Whirl complained, as Whirl was wont to do, but he didn't try to leave the medibay and when Rung was late for their impromptu book club, the psychiatrist found himself being comm'd impatiently. Rung apologized; he had meant to arrive promptly but Rodimus stopped him in the corridor and he couldn't talk himself out of the conversation quickly enough.

They started in on a second mystery novel. One of the main characters was a psychiatrist and Whirl interrupted frequently, asking if the writer was 'doing it right', the answer to which was frequently 'no'. Halfway through the novel, Rung had begun to pause occasionally and inject his own perspective on the text, sometimes rather heatedly.

"Oh no, this is _completely wrong_. You would never ask a patient to-"

"You can't stop reading in the middle of a fight scene! I'm losing the narrative flow or whatever!"

By the end of the book, Rung found himself asking and answering questions with Whirl in a way he wasn't used to: without the need to psychoanalyze Whirl's responses. They were just friends, discussing a novel. Their conversation meant nothing beyond shared enjoyment.

And when Rung returned to his quarters that evening, he did so feeling cheered by their interaction and looking forward to repeating it.

The next day, Whirl offered to read. More like insisted, really. Rung relented. His vocaliser was scratchy from two days of reading and he was curious what Whirl would choose. It occurred to him, as the 'copter continued in the murder mystery vein, that he didn't really need to be here. Whirl would be distracted enough reading on his own, now that he had been inspired to do so.

But Rung didn't leave. And he returned the day after, and the day after that, and after that. They read back and forth to each other for two weeks. 

When Whirl was released, Rung found himself suddenly with a hole in his schedule. He dutifully re-organized his time table to fill in the gap but found he rather missed ploughing through an entire novel in a few hours. It was like coming back from a vacation.

More than that, he missed Whirl. They'd met under strictly controlled, unfortunate circumstances and that meeting had coloured the rest of their interactions, until now. Rung had always been his psychiatrist: someone Whirl didn't want to deal with, someone who made him embarrassed or angry or sad depending on the topic Rung pushed him to discuss, someone to antagonize and intimidate. Whirl had always been a difficult patient; he was a living minefield of psychological issues.

Rung hadn't known that there was anything to Whirl except anger and violence and bravado and self-hatred. The version of Whirl he had started to know in medibay was still unpredictable and fierce, but he was also candid and engaged, and despite being perilously uneducated, Whirl wasn't dumb. He made quick connections and analyzed situations with striking insight. These skills served him well as a warrior, but they served him equally as a conversationalist.

Thus, Rung felt rather dejected when Whirl was released and allowed to return to his regular duty, ending their short diversion. Their occupations would only bring them together when Whirl was scheduled for sessions with Rung and then they would be back to their old relationship, combative and tense. Or was it possible that their new-found camaraderie could translate into therapeutic progress? Rung rejected the idea of using their time in the medibay as a tool to move Whirl's therapy along. These were separate situations, he decided.

When Whirl's appointment came up, Rung was careful that he worked only with material from their previous sessions. Whirl was slightly more agreeable in nature than he had been before, though still prickly enough on the topic of his personal issues. Several sessions passed in this fashion, and then one evening, on his way back from a quick run to the mess for rations, Rung bumped into Drift.

"May I speak with you for a moment, doctor?" asked the swordsmech.

"Of course," Rung answered, looking up. Drift settled one hand on the psychiatrist's shoulder.

"Could you speak to Whirl? He's...” Drift spent a moment searching for the right word, “melancholy."

"Yes," replied Rung automatically. "What happened?"

“He misses you," said the swordsmech, smiling slightly. "Not that he's going to tell anyone, least of all you."

Rung hesitated. "I miss him too," he finally confessed, and dropped his gaze, brows furrowing. "But it's difficult separating Whirl-the-patient from Whirl-the-person."

"Why try?"

"Professional standards, Drift."

"But he's your friend, isn't he? I mean, as much as Whirl will let anyone befriend him. Which is more important, the friend or the patient?"

Rung shook his head. "They're both important," he said gently. "At this juncture, I would argue that he is more important as my patient."

Drift's expression fell. "He makes himself _incredibly_ difficult to like, but I have sympathy for him, Rung. You aren't the only therapist in the galaxy, but you are the only _you_ in the galaxy. Maybe he needs a friend more than he needs a therapist."

"I strongly disagree," said Rung, and he suddenly understood why Ratchet muttered snide things about Drift under his breath sometimes. Drift had no business telling Rung his business. "Whirl needs help, professional help. Being his friend isn't going to replace that. It could even damage his recovery."

Drift sighed. "For the time-being, let's set our opinions aside and just agree that it might benefit Whirl's disposition a little if you called on him? He's in his habitation suite."

Rung had intended to work late into the recharge cycle, catching up on reading and research that he was still several weeks behind on. Getting shot in the head and repaired had that effect on one's schedule. 

Still, he did want to see Whirl in a casual capacity. Drift probably wouldn't let it go until Rung either agreed or lost his temper, and both situations would take hours to achieve. Rung didn't want to devote that long to the conversation when he could be accomplishing something useful. It was better to agree with Drift for the time being.

"All right," he assented, “I'll go look in on him.” He clamped his jaws around the rest of his thoughts before they could escape.

Drift grinned and gave Rung's shoulder a squeeze. “Wonderful!” 

They parted ways and Rung diverted his path toward Whirl's habitation suite.

Whirl answered the door chime immediately. He was clearly not expecting Rung, and whoever he was expecting, Rung definitely didn't want to be. The 'copter was all flared stabilizers and contracted optic and jutting guns until he registered who he was glaring down at. His optic dilated in surprise. The guns folded up under his cockpit.

"What are you doing here?"

"Drift found me in the corridor," said Rung and took a cautious step forward, indicating, he hoped, a wish to enter. Whirl shuffled aside. "He is a frustrating and opinionated mech, who in all honesty should keep his opinions out of business he isn't qualified to address." Rung pressed his mouth into a firm line. It felt good to say but he regretted it almost instantly. "Oh, perhaps I'm being too harsh-"

"Pff- hahaha! If it makes you feel better, I just shot at him twice."

"Whirl!"

"Thought you were him again when you rang the bell. C'mon in."

"Why did you shoot at him?"

Whirl crossed the room and flopped onto a chair. "He told you to come see me, didn't he?" he said, ignoring the question. Rung took a seat near Whirl. The 'copter's quarters were surprisingly neat.

"Yes, he did. He, uh, he told me you needed a friend," Rung said.

The 'copter gave a mirthless giggle. "Fragging Drift. Told me the same thing. No, not exactly. He told me you were lonely and would 'appreciate my company'." Whirl made a sound of pure derision. He spotted the ration Rung still had cupped, forgotten, between his hands. "But, hey, since you're here-" He vaulted to his feet and made for the door. "-I haven't eaten yet. Let's go to the mess."

Rung stood. "It wasn't just Drift," he confided. "I wanted to spend time with you casually, but I wasn't sure it would be appropriate."

Whirl drew back from him, unreadable. "Appropriate?"

"I'm your doctor; you're my patient. It isn't-"

"Oh frag that. Like I care."

" _I_ care."

"Like I care that you care."

"But I-"

"Look," said Whirl and halted abruptly, "either you want to be friends, or you don't. It's not that complicated."

"It's not that simple," Rung argued. "Friendship would change the dynamics of our relationship. I can't set that aside when we're in a session and neither can you. It affects how we respond to each other and it could impact how you receive treatment from me. I want you to be healthy, Whirl. I don't want to jeopardize your progress."

Whirl sank into a crouch, resting his aft on his hocks with a quiet creak of metal. "You're wrong," he said. 

Rung opened his mouth to argue but the 'copter shook his head.

"Don't you think this is _dumb_? Discussing whether or not we can be friends?" He gave a quick look around. “You think I'll be more mad at you for something you say in a session because I think you're supposed to be nice to me because we're friends? I know what your job is. I know it works a certain way, that you got a code or a bunch of definitions or steps or whatever that you follow. I think a bunch of them are stupid and I don't understand why you think it helps but-" He held up a hand when Rung made to interrupt again. “But. You say you want to help me, professionally, but you don't want to be my friend. Okay, I could understand that, I guess, if we didn't actually get along, but we-” He stood up. "Whatever. This is stupid." He turned abruptly and headed back towards his suite. Rung took three long, quick strides and caught his pincer.

"Whirl."

"What!"

"I really enjoyed reading with you in the medibay and I want to be your friend."

The 'copter didn't say anything and Rung fought to keep his expression neutral-frustrated.

Then Whirl shrugged. "I can't even make fun of you when you say stuff like that. It's just too easy. No challenge."

"Then don't," Rung encouraged.

Whirl bumped his claw against Rung's chest. The gesture was obviously meant to be gentle but Whirl's 'gentle' still pushed Rung backwards a step. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"I promise not to tell anyone that you skipped a chance to mock me," said Rung, with a small smile.

“There. Now we're friends,” Whirl replied and slung a companionable, if staggeringly heavy, arm around Rung's shoulders.


End file.
